Queen and Lionheart
by Miss Mungoe
Summary: She is the mother of their den of wily cubs, and he but one of many soldiers at her command. But there is something different in the way she looks at him, a flicker in eyes pale and blue as ice when she beckons him close. – Olivier/Buccaneer, companion-fic to 'Winter Heart'.
1. we're still the same

AN: Set before the start of Brotherhood; Buccaneer's perspective regarding the proposition made in 'Winter Heart'. Compared to my other fics with these two this is rated M for a reason(!). Oh, and if you haven't yet seen the amazing Olivier/Buccaneer piece **krocatoo **on tumblr drew for me, _you really must. _It was what inspired me to write this; she's drawn them so dastardly attractive, I honestly couldn't help myself.

Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist and its characters belong to Hiromu Arakawa; I own nothing. Title is shamelessly borrowed from the song _King and Lionheart _by 'Of Monsters and Men'.

* * *

**Queen and Lionheart **

by Miss Mungoe

She'd caught him off guard, that was for damn sure.

"What would you say if I were to proposition you?"

She'd said it so calmly, too – like she'd asked for his input on a military matter, and not something so vastly different. But keeping a cool self-control in the face of the unexpected had long been a point of pride for Buccaneer, and so he'd responded to the remark with the honesty she deserved. He hadn't for a moment considered the fact that she was pulling his leg – she wasn't the kind to tease, simple as that.

But he wouldn't say he hadn't been surprised; claiming anything else meant he'd considered the venture a realistic prospect, but Olivier Armstrong had always been just a little too out of the reach of the hands of mortals for that. There wasn't to his knowledge a more striking individual this side of the Briggs border, and he'd bet his last penny there wasn't any on the other side, either. She was stunningly attractive woman, and there was something to be said about the authority she threw around, sharp and cutting like the blade at her hip. She was the kind of woman who came around once in a century, wild and rare and fierce like a comet, blinding in her splendour and a destructive force shaking the foundations of the earth itself in her passing.

"I'd be honoured, ma'am."

It was a gross understatement to be sure, but he'd been so floored by her proposition his wit had completely escaped him, and left him with a humble sort of honesty that didn't even brush the surface of what he felt about the matter. But it turned out it was enough, and for a moment he'd felt foolish for thinking she'd ever want or need anything else.

She'd beckoned him close, and he'd offered her a drink – a startlingly banal gesture, considering the offer she'd just made, but they'd never been ones for awkwardness and even with the suggestive undertones the familiar repartee fell as easily as ever between them. She was a splendid sight, the cold air casting a flush over her cheeks, and her eyes were bright in the gathering darkness. A Queen at her Northern throne, the world at her feet and her enemy at her back, and for a moment he'd been struck by the significance of her proposal.

The kiss had been unexpected but not at all unwelcome. Amidst shared drinks she'd reached towards him, foregoing any notion of decorum as she'd slanted her mouth against his, her nose cold and the scotch a sharp taste on her tongue. Emboldened, he'd tangled his fingers in her hair, and she'd allowed the transgression – a small courtesy, perhaps, but staggering in its sheer magnitude. And then, rolling off her tongue with ease, a remark that was at once an order and a suggestion–

"What do you you say we take this somewhere warmer?"

And he'd spared only a brief thought for his blessed bout of good fortune, unable to hide his thrilled grin as she rose to her feet, an unmasked desire in her pale eyes that made him forget all about the cold.

"_Aye_, ma'am."

* * *

The door to her private quarters closed behind him, but he remained just a step inside, watching as she placed her sword down by her desk before smoothly shedding her winter coat, shrugging it off and dropping it over the back of a chair. The room was dark, but she lit the kerosene lamp on her nightstand, and he was momentarily struck by the domesticity of her actions, and the familiarity with which she moved about despite his presence and the underlying implications. It was a sign of comfort, and he didn't know why he was even surprised. Perhaps it was because it helped drive home the realization of the reason she'd asked _him _of all the soldiers in her ranks.

Seeming to sense his eyes on her back, she turned, one brow arched in silent question, and when he didn't move a smirk the likes of which he was sure he'd never seen before curled along the lines of her full mouth. "Getting cold feet, Captain?" she asked as she took a seat, before she set about tugging off her boots, first the left and then the right, the motion deliberate where her earlier shedding of her coat had been careless. This was something else – new territory for the both of them, two old-timers at the threshold of a first. But she didn't seem to let that fact impair her as she tugged off one glove, then the other, before she set about unbuttoning her uniform jacket with a meticulous pace that only served to underline the fact that it wasn't just about a quick romp in the sheets to get the warmth back into their bones. If that had been the case, they wouldn't still be dressed.

But she seemed in no hurry, and as she hadn't called him out on his ogling, Buccaneer grasped the rare opportunity to watch her shed her regalia.

"Quite the contrary, ma'am," he answered, voice gruffer than he'd intended, but it was hard keeping track of something like the movement of his vocal chords when she was looking at him like _that._ The slight buzz from the scotch still lingered at the edge of his mind, but the warmth deep in his belly wasn't from the alcohol.

The last button of her jacket slipped its confines, and she pushed it off her shoulders and dropped it over the back of the chair with her coat, leaving her in a wool shift identical to the one he wore himself, but he marvelled at how the same type of garment could look so vastly different on another shape. It clung more than it hung to her shoulders, the fabric tight around the distracting outline of a waist the standard Amestrian uniform did absolutely no favours.

She caught his gaze then, her look one of dry amusement, and without dropping it, set about unbuttoning her pants.

He barked a laugh quite despite himself, and she quirked a brow. "Something the matter, Buccaneer?"

He didn't tell her that her unapologetic boldness was a damn fine trait in a partner, or that he was still wrapping his mind around the fact that they'd come to this point. Instead he only smiled, the gesture stretching wide across his face. "I was just thinking that you're quite a sight, sir."

She snorted, but a smile lingered along the corners of her mouth. "Indeed?" Pushing the fabric of her pants down her legs, she discarded it carelessly, before throwing one leg smoothly over the other as she leaned back in her chair. His gaze travelled up the expanse of bare skin, until the clearing of a throat had his eyes flicking to hers. She raised her brows, and the order rang loud and clear, and he could only chuckle as he moved to take off his own coat.

"All's fair, Captain," she said simply, in that low tone of voice that usually meant some poor Central official was about to be thoroughly schooled, but there was a husky quality to it that he hadn't heard before, and the promise of something quite other than _discipline_ lurked in blue eyes sharp and gleaming like a northern glacier.

And ever the faithful vassal, Buccaneer didn't question her authority, and once the coat fell, the boots were next. She said nothing where she sat, seemingly content to watch him, and he smirked, unduly pleased at the attention. He'd never been one to draw appreciative looks like some of his colleagues, but then, it had never been a priority, either. But there was something to be said about being the focus of attention of those sharp eyes – to be more than just a soldier at her command, always a steady presence at her back. She wasn't a woman who gave a damn about looks, but the way her gaze lingered shamelessly rubbed his vanity the right way regardless.

The automail made unbuttoning his jacket an awkward venture, and he grumbled under his breath, his own attempted efficiency leaving something to be desired. She rose to her feet then – the movement gliding effortlessly into three sure strides, and then her hands were on the lapels of his uniform, deft fingers making quick work of the buttons before she pushed the jacket off his shoulders. One hand lingered against his prosthetic arm, an odd sort of indecision in her movements, but it was gone a second later, and in one fluid motion she'd tugged her shift over her head. Her heavy mane fell about her bare shoulders, static from the wool of the shirt, but she paid it no mind, and shed the rest of her undergarments without preamble.

Then she raised her chin, placing her hands on her hips, and he could only stare.

She quirked a smile. "Speechless, Buccaneer? _Well_, now."

He laughed, gaze lingering on the wide flare of her hips and the dip in her waist, and the soft glow of her pale skin in the flickering lamplight, the hinted softness betrayed by the coil of sinewy muscles running the length of her strong arms and legs and across the expanse of her stomach. A sight larger than life, though she was in fact a rather slight woman, her head not even level with his shoulder with her uniform boots on and even lower now, stripped as she was of her military garb. But her presence loomed large before him, the gleam in her eyes making it seem like she was seizing up an opponent, and when she reached for him it was without reserve, fingers hooking into his belt as she tugged him closer. A cold hand slipped beneath his shirt, calloused fingers dancing along the skin of his stomach, and he swore under his breath.

"Cold?"

He grumbled, "You usually wear gloves, sir."

She smirked. "There'll be time for kinks later," she declared. "First I'd like it a little warmer in here."

He grinned, "As you wish, ma'am," and for the second time in one evening, as well as in the long years spanning the length of their acquaintance, reached out to rest his hand against the side of her face, fingers delving into the mass of her hair as he pulled her close to smash his mouth against hers.

They weren't gentle people in life and so it wasn't strange that they weren't even remotely gentle in _this_, either, but rather two colliding forces, a winter wind slamming against the unyielding mountain, and despite her small size she threw the full weight of her being into her actions. His knees buckled when she proceeded to shove him back against the door, hands tugging, tearing and pulling at his wool shirt until it was discarded along with his jacket, and her fingers ghosting over the seat of his pants was all the warning he got before she slipped them beneath the hem, pulling the fabric down his legs and kicking it away.

Then she paused, and spared him a long, appreciative look that made his mouth go dry, but she didn't give him a moment to savour it before she advanced on him again. And it _was_ combat, he realized, but though devoid of her blade her teeth bit sharp against his lower lip, and the rake of her fingernails down his back had him grinning against her mouth.

It was far from a graceful venture, but theirs was a long-time partnership rooted in a trust that drove the initial awkwardness away before it had had a chance to settle. They'd fought side-by-side for years, and in some ways he knew her form as well as he knew his own. Her right knee had suffered damage some years back and gave her hell on particularly cold days, and she had minimal sensitivity in the last two fingers of her left hand from an old frostbite. She'd broken a number of ribs on a number of occasions, and one protruded at an odd angle from beneath her skin, he felt, as he ran his fingers over the curve of her ribcage. He also knew she had a nasty scar somewhere on her back from a near-fatal encounter with Drachma – he'd been present when she'd been struck down, had half-dragged, half-carried her to a medic, but had never seen the souvenir it had left her with.

Now he ran his fingers along the ridge, a jagged, protruding line spanning the length of her back from her shoulder-blade to her hip, but she didn't jerk at the touch, and disregarding her state of complete undress, as far as intimate allowances went it carried a lot more weight than the mere shedding of her uniform.

"Admiring my battle scars, I see."

He said nothing, aware that it was a subject better left unspoken, and let his hand drift lower, watching with mild satisfaction her pupils dilate. But never one for renouncing control, she responded in turn, curling slim fingers around his length in a way that had his breath lodging in the base of his throat.

She quirked a brow. "_My_, Captain," she all but purred, wicked delight in her pale eyes, and he held back a curse when her grip tightened deliberately – a decidedly teasing gesture for a woman who was usually one for cutting right to the chase. "Aren't you well equipped."

He growled, mismatched hands gripping the swell of her hips as he took a step forward, pushing her back as he went. Artificial fingers raked down the length of her thigh before digging into the swell of her ass, and when he hoisted her up it was with none of the reserve he'd shown her earlier. But she took it all in stride, winding her legs around his midsection with a force as though about to take him down in a leg-lock, and when he shoved her against the wall her smile was as sharp as her teeth against his mouth.

"Taking charge, Buccaneer? I believe some would call that _insubordination._"

His mirth was a deep thrum from somewhere in his gut. "I'll take my chances, sir."

"Oh, you will, will you?" The gaze holding his was a challenge if he'd ever seen one, daring him to make good of his words, and now there was no air of hesitation when he gripped her hips and pushed himself forward.

She sank onto him with a breath, the movement made slightly awkward by their positions, but he adjusted his grip on her thighs and when he pulled her closer next the motion drew a low groan from her throat – the kind of sound that went straight to your bloodstream and then to your head faster than a shot of strong booze. She braced herself against him, fingers digging into skin and metal and her breath was a harsh rasp against his throat, and he didn't pause, but thrust into her with a little less restraint every time.

It wasn't ideal; it was rough and inelegant, and she swore against his ear as she shifted – the action nearly making his vision go blank and all the breath in his lungs to be sucked out, but it became clear to him that she wasn't nearly as contented. She grunted, wrinkling her nose as annoyance skittered across her expression. He chuckled at the sight, but had to hold back a groan when her legs tightened around him, as though in retaliation. "Orders, sir?" he wheezed out.

That seemed to make up her mind. "Bunk," she bit out. "_Now._" Then without warning she pushed herself away from the wall, and it was all he could do not to topple backwards, cursing under his breath as he tried to regain his balance.

Her grin was a flicker before his vision. "Steady on your feet, Captain," she purred, the hands on his shoulders sliding up to grasp his neck, her legs clenching around him again and this time the expletive that rolled off his tongue drew a laugh from her. "Keep going," she muttered against his mouth, and when the backs of his legs hit the edge of the bunk, she sank down with him, the gold of her hair following the movement, brushing against his skin as he was pushed rather unceremoniously on his back.

She tilted her head where she sat above him, a cat's clever grin stretching along her mouth. "Much better."

He snorted, a remark at the tip of his tongue about always needing to be in charge, but it was driven from his mind when she rotated her hips in a lazy circle, arching one brow as she looked down at him. "What was that?"

He only grumbled, but tightened his grip on her thighs, and when she rolled her hips next a low thrum of a moan rolled off her tongue in turn, and this time he didn't hold back his own groan, and let his head fall back against the mattress.

Wrapped in the depths of her heat, the cold seemed a vague memory, and the discomfort of the edge of the bunk digging into his hip was driven from his mind by the all-encompassing feel of her – the steady motion of her thrusts and the heave of her chest, and the eyes holding his blue like ice though she was all scorching warmth, fierce and wild like a bonfire. Her earlier annoyance was gone, chased from her features and leaving a smug smile that promised nothing but trouble, and that had a shiver racing up his spine despite the sweat coating his skin. _Lord have mercy, but she's going to kill me. _

She was more at ease now, he noted, and there was a fervour about her movements more suited for a woman half her age, but it spurred him on, and he let his hands ghost along her sides, fingers brushing against the undersides of her exposed breasts and when she let her head fall back it was a sight that rivalled the summit of Briggs on a clear day, and he was momentarily _stunned_–

–when her eyes snapped back to his, and she thrust forward with enough force to nudge the bunk against the wall, and he swore loudly and colourfully as his vision crossed. _Fuck–_

"_Woman_," he barked, hands sliding back down to grip her hips, as though in warning, "You're going to be the death of me."

That only seemed to urge her on, and she grinned, hands skimming down his chest to his abdomen. "Care to test that theory?"

She was far from a delicate woman, and so he didn't spare a thought for gentleness as he thrust upward – the movement drawing another moan from low in her throat, and the grip of her fingers was a vice against the skin of his sides. The metal of his automail had a peppering of goosebumps rising along the curve spanning the length from her hip to the swell of her breasts, but she didn't seem to mind.

She grinned wickedly, and a little dazedly, but didn't slow down – quite the opposite, and he met her halfway, matching her movements though the feel of her around him was making it hard to keep a level head, as she was no doubt aware going by the gleam in her eyes. She'd outlast him, but he was too bloody old to give a damn about appearances, and it _had been too fucking long_, and so when he came it was with a vicious oath that dwindled into a drawn-out groan as he bucked against her.

"Don't pass out on me yet, soldier," came the order, and she drew his good hand towards her, directing it with a smooth efficiency to press his thumb against her slick folds. And despite the daze, he followed her example, rubbing against it and drawing a throaty moan from her lips as she rocked forward. He repeated the gesture, and the next sound that escaped her was from somewhere lower in her gut, and he vowed dazedly that even if she decided it to be a one-time thing, he'd hoard the memory until he drew his last breath.

She _unwound_ then, unyielding steel going slack and soft and malleable as she collapsed against him, the gold of her hair spilling over his heaving shoulders, and his grip against her was hard enough to bruise. Her skin was slick with sweat, and the room was coated in a hazy sort of warmth that belied the winter wind raging outside.

With a sigh, she slid off him, the movement a lethargic sort of surrender so at odds with her character. "Still alive, Buccaneer?" And there was a breathless quality to her words, the slow drum of her voice curling around his ear, and he grinned lazily – unduly pleased at the startlingly human display of utter _exhaustion _from a woman who'd claim to be dandy when she looked dead on her feet_._

"Barely, ma'am."

She laughed then – the sound bubbling forth from somewhere at the depth of her being, and when she shifted it was to throw a leg over his hip, pushing herself closer in the small space the bunk left them with. "Flattery or honesty this time?" she asked, a sinful smile curving along her full mouth.

He didn't know what possessed him to do it – perhaps the sight of her, bare and relaxed and laughing in a way that was now permanently engraved in his memory – but when he reached out to tangle his fingers in her hair she didn't start, only looked at him through hooded eyes that showed more than they hid. He quirked a tired smile. "With you, ma'am, always honesty."

She snorted, but there was no bite behind it. "On the tongue of any other man, _that_ would be considered flattery."

He laughed, running his hand through the length of her hair, the thick mass damp and clinging to her skin. A flush peppered her shoulders and the arch of her regal cheekbones, and her eyes were half-lidded and lazy. And there was the sense of privacy again – and of the sheer weight of the allowance she had granted him. This was vulnerability, this lingering after the act. A quick fuck would have seen him dressed and out the door already, but the heavy lethargy that had settled was testament of something else, something that was further underlined the way she rested, partly atop him but appearing in no hurry to move. If she'd commanded it he'd have gone in a heartbeat, collected his things and been out the door without a word. He was still her loyal vassal, and though there was no denying _something_ had changed, he carried no misconceptions about his new role.

And so, "Any further orders, ma'am?"

Her response was a tired grunt, halfway muffled by the pillow. "As you were, Captain. Or do you have any other pressing matters to attend to?"

He grinned into the dark, and let the full weight of his arm rest over the curve of her hip, pleased that she let him. Her hair fanned out, a golden arc against the bunk, and his eyes traced the scar on her back, and the jutting rib that shifted when she drew breath. "Not at all, sir."

She didn't open her eyes. "Good. Now shut up and go to sleep."

His laughter was a rumble, low and good-humoured, because despite making such a staggering leap across personal boundaries, some things were still the same. "_Aye_, ma'am."

He'd never dream of taming the winter – of claiming dominance over a living, immeasurable force like Olivier Armstrong. Instead he'd brave the heart of the blizzard with his arms thrown wide open, and take what she gave. He was still her vassal; and she his sovereign lady.

And all the private intimacies in the world couldn't hope to change that.

* * *

AN: I've a tender heart, okay? This is me dipping my toes into new territory, hurr – I wasn't about to cannonball right in /hides under the covers. But I do hope it was enjoyable_, _nudge-nudge, wink-wink. Please drop a line, either way; I might want to do this again.


	2. these problems aside

AN: So thanks to lovely feedback, this thing spawned another chapter! (Because if you're already depraved, why not just go all in, eheh) I'm thinking about making into a collection of inter-connected shorts with these two and their various...escapades.

Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist and its characters belong to Hiromu Arakawa; I own nothing. Snippet at the beginning is (like the title) from Of Monsters and Men's _King and Lionheart._

* * *

_these problems aside, I think I taught you well_

You'd think after well over two decades in the Amestrian military, that she'd have gotten used to being patronized.

"Now, see here, Major General. Miss Armstrong. May I call you Miss Armstrong? You might think your way of doing things is correct, but when it comes down to what is best for your garrison, you really ought to take a word of wisdom or two from someone who's been in the game a little longer."

Which, in less polite terms, roughly translated into _'Now, now, little lady, don't go letting such radical ideas get into that pretty little head of yours, and leave the decision-making to the men'. _

The salt-and-pepper haired official Central had sent up leaned back in his chair with a amicable smile, and she resisted the urge to chuck her steaming cup of tea across the table. She'd land a good hit, she knew – she had a damn good aim with just about any firearm, and the tea was hot enough to make sure he'd get some nice, angry red blotches to go with the liver spots on his smug, wrinkled face.

But that would surely get more meddling officials on her neck, and so she only tightened her grip around the handle, and lifted the cup to her lips. "My apologies, Colonel. I do get a little ahead of myself at times." She smiled demurely. "And I mean no disrespect, but I'm sure you understand that the running of Briggs is better left to someone who is an active part of this garrison?" And there was a challenge there, veiled in polite words and softened by a smile she knew usually did wonders for old coots like the one sitting across from her. Her own men knew to pick up their feet and run for their lives at that smile, but the old turd across the table didn't.

Although if he called her 'Miss Armstrong' one more time, she'd make him wish he'd known to run.

The Colonel pursed his lips, and seemed to contemplate her words. "Yes, well...I will admit you have a point." Then he leaned across the table, and for a moment she wondered if he was going to reach for her hand. "But you see, I fear maybe your attachment to this garrison and your men may cloud your judgement in this case. I know personally the many virtues of the feminine heart, but in military matters it is best to keep a level head, don't you think?"

Oh, she wanted to strangle him – wanted to wind his _aiguilette_ around his neck so tight his eyes would pop right out of his skull and leave him a gasping, drooling mess on the floor of her office. But instead she took another sip of her tea, forcing the liquid down with a repressed smile while she tried to still the shaking hands that were itching towards the handle of her sword. _I wonder if you can tell if a heart is feminine or not if I rip yours out through your chest to show you. _

He rose to his feet then, pushing his chair back. "Well! I'll leave you to think matters over, and we'll finish this tomorrow, no? It's getting rather late, and I won't keep you from your rest. It must be quite hard for you, having to wrangle so many men at once." He grinned cheerfully. "Don't you let them overrun you, now – remind them who's _boss_." Then he winked, and chuckled to himself, as though he'd made a particularly endearing jest, before he turned towards the doorway with a jaunty step.

The door closed behind him, but she remained where she sat, back ramrod straight in her chair as she stared at the slab of wood. Then, when she'd counted to ten in her head, she took a deep breath–

–and with a _roar_ from somewhere deep in her gut, flung the teacup at the door with such force that it sent shards flying in all directions along with the remainder of the tea. A piece bounced back, and she felt a sting against her cheek before a drop of liquid trickled down the length of her jaw, but she didn't reach up to wipe it away.

Her hands shook, but she pressed them against the tabletop, and had to restrain herself from flipping the whole table. She dealt with these fuckers on a regular basis, but it took a certain type of pretentious old goat to rile her up this good. They were the kind who couldn't see past her tits, and who jotted down every perceived mistake as a result of her _feminine heart_. They were the ones who couldn't imagine a woman of a higher rank than their own, and who'd treat her like an underling regardless of the embellishments on her uniform.

A knock on the door drew her out of her mind, and she breathed in through her nose before answering, "_Yes_?"

There was a pause, no doubt at her tone. Then, "It's Buccaneer, sir."

She sighed, and rubbed at the spot between her brows, infinitely glad it wasn't the Colonel come back for a last jab – she didn't think she'd be able to reign in her temper quickly enough. "Come in," she barked, and grimaced – she wasn't angry at _him_, but it was hard keeping the ire out of her voice when it felt like it was trying to squeeze her lungs out through her throat. She needed to hit something to get it all out. She needed to roar and throw some punches. She needed a good, long spar where she could bash someone's head against the wall. She–

The door creaked open to admit the familiar bulk, and she caught the flicker of an uncertain grin as he ducked his head to get through the doorway, and suddenly all her righteous anger dropped like a weight to pool low, _low_ her belly and she sucked in a breath through her nose as realization hit her like a punch to the face.

_She needed a good fuck_.

He closed the door behind him, a wary expression on the hard planes of his face, and the heat in her belly coiled like a snake, but for an entirely different reason, now. "Is this a bad time?" he asked, as he lingered before the door, and cast a glance at the pool of tea and porcelain shards littering the floor at his feet. Then he looked back up at her, and she watched his gaze flicker to the cut on her cheek, but he didn't bring it up.

_Wise man. _"As a matter of fact, Captain," she announced, as she regarded him from her seat. "Your timing couldn't have been better."

He quirked a dubious brow – the way he had a habit of doing whenever she said something he claimed would end with him going into cardiac arrest. But something else passed over his face, too – realization, though she knew her tone of voice had declared her intentions well enough. And then his look darkened considerably, the way that made him look more like a feral bear than anything else ever travelled up her back like a peppering of sweat, and her uniform suddenly felt thick and tight-fitting – which, she realized, she could easily do something about. _Or_...

"Undress me."

His brows travelled up at that, and her smile widened. "I can see you doing it with your eyes, so why not put those hands to good use?" She quirked a brow in silent question, and shifted in her seat so that her elbows were resting on the armrests. "I see Neil's removed your combat automail – you came here with intentions, Captain." She tilted her head, eyes glittering. "Or am I wrong in my assumption?"

He snorted, but didn't correct her, and without another word, turned the lock on the door. When he looked back towards her she was still sitting in the chair, watching him intently, curious to see what he'd do. She usually called the shots, though in the privacy of their respective quarters she'd long since given him permission to take certain liberties.

He shrugged off his coat to drop over the empty chair the Colonel had left, before he came around the table to where she sat, and she let her eyes follow the contours of his shape beneath the uniform. That he was a large man was something of an understatement, and she felt the heat pooling in her belly travel lower as her eyes trailed down the expanse of his chest. She was in no way a shy woman, but going by the smug grin on his face, he wasn't lamenting _that_ particular fact.

A nudge with one booted foot and the chair was angled towards him, and she looked up, tapping her fingers against the armrest. Then he knelt before her, mismatched hands curling around her ankle, before he tugged off one boot, then the other. Strong fingers skimmed up the sides of her legs and over her thighs, before settling on the curve of her waist just beneath the hem of her jacket. He met her eyes, and with a look of wry amusement, tugged it open with enough force to make one of the buttons pop and fall to the floor.

She raised a brow. "You're going to sow that one back on yourself."

He grinned. "The automail makes it difficult," was his excuse, but he didn't seem the least bit sorry as he pushed the jacket off her shoulders.

"Hmm, I bet."

The button on her pants yielded with less effort, and she shifted a little in her seat as he drew the fabric down her legs, watching as his eyes followed the movement of his hands, before the garment was chucked aside. She smirked, and spread her legs a little wider as she leaned back at a languid pose.

He looked at her then – long and hard. The look of a man who couldn't decide whether to take her then and there or make her wait for it, and she breathed out deeply, hyper aware of the warmth coming off him, and the layers of uniform that still separated them. She was usually happy with taking her time, but her restless irritation from earlier shivered across her skin like goosebumps, and there was the _urge_ again – the one that made her fingers twitch.

One thought at her earlier meeting, and the patronizing grin that still lingered before her mind's eye, made up her mind.

"Fuck the clothes," she growled, and without warning pushed herself forward, fingers curling around the braid at the nape of his neck as she tugged his head towards her, slanting her mouth against his as she slid out of the chair. He caught her weight with a grunt, but regained enough balance not to topple backwards, his grip around her waist a vice now, and she bit down sharply on his lower lip in response. "You were taking too long," she muttered, and he chuckled, the sound from somewhere deep in his chest, and then without warning, he rose–

An oath fell from her lips as she was suddenly lifted into the air, and she braced herself, glaring down at him as his hands came to cradle her ass – the left hand blessedly warm, and the right the exact opposite, the cold, hard digits of his automail pressing into the skin in a way that would leave bruises in the morning. They slid around to grip her thighs, and he eased her down to her feet. Without her boots she had to angle her head to look up at him, and she wondered that for being such a ludicrously heavy-set man, he'd never once made her feel small.

His hands settled on her hips then, fingers slipping beneath the hem of her wool shift, and she hissed. He grinned. "Cold, sir?"

She recognized the words as her own – uttered on an evening her head had buzzed with good scotch and she'd let herself go for the first time in years, and she snorted, "Cheeky bastard. Been waiting to bandy that one back at me long?" She sucked in a breath as his hands splayed wide over her ribcage, the tips of his fingers just out of reach of her breasts, and held back an order for him _to stop being such a damn tease_.

He laughed. "Would you like me to wrap things up? You seem a bit impatient." Now his thumb brushed against the swell of one breast, the gesture almost painfully deliberate, and she swallowed a strangled groan. "Did you say something, sir?" And _would you know, but the man got bold when prompted. _

Another brush of his hand over her nipple snapped her thinning patience in half, and she growled, "Oh shut up, Buccaneer, and _get me the fuck off_ before I take you myse– "

The words hadn't left her tongue before they were shoved back into her mouth, and the hands around her midsection came up to grasp her jaw, tilting her head sharply and with enough force to make her neck snap back at a painful angle. She caught herself against the fabric of his jacket, tugging him down so she wouldn't have to rise to her toes because hell if she was that kind of woman. And hulking bear or not, he'd damn well accommodate for her height if she so had to drag him down with her.

He seemed to be thinking along the same lines, though with an idea of his own because, and again without warning, the hands grasping her jaw slid down her neck to her shoulders, before she found herself flipped rather unceremoniously over the table, and hard enough to knock the breath from her lungs.

She grinned, and flicked her gaze up at him, unduly pleased at the sudden turn of events. "Who's impatient now, Captain?" she purred, and held back a hiss when his hand came around to grip her ass again with enough force to hurt. But oh, the last thing she needed was some kind of tender cuddle-sex, and she was damn grateful he understood that.

She was egging him on, she knew, but she'd found in the time she'd come to know him behind closed doors, that poking this particular bear wouldn't get your arms torn off or your innards on display. It _would_ get you a damn good fuck up against some form of flat surface, and she was in dire need of one of those. And if the shattered teacup hadn't painted him a pretty good picture of what had gone down before he'd arrived, her wilful mood was indication enough.

She shifted deliberately, spreading her legs wide, and rested her chin on her arms. "Well? Do you need a written invitation?"

He muttered something about being dangerous for his health, but the grip on her ass tightened, and this time she didn't quite succeed in holding back the moan that was drawn from her throat, and when a cold metal digit slipped beneath the fabric of her underwear, just out of the reach of her sex, it took all her willpower not to let her knees buckle, and when he laughed she could feel it against her back. The fabric of his uniform brushed against her skin as he knelt behind her, tugging the fabric down her legs. She felt his grin against her thigh, and the warmth of his breath had a shiver racing along her feverish skin.

Then he rose back to his feet, mismatched hands trailing up her legs, and this time when he touched her there as nothing teasing about it, but the rough plunge of one finger that had her swallowing a groan, the sound muffled partly by her arm. Despite how slight she was compared to him, he didn't treat her like she was in any way delicate – a doll that could break at the merest pressure. The grip against her thigh bit into her skin, and the metal of his automail within her had her clenching around his hand until she bit through the skin of her lip but _damn it if it didn't feel good. _

He drew his hand away then, and she heard his pants drop, and the grumbled curse along with the movement, and a thrill of expectation ran down the length of her spine. Then the hand was at the back of her neck, shoving her head down against the table with barely enough restraint to make sure she didn't bash it against the top so hard she passed out, the metal fingers snagging in her hair, but she relished in the feel of it because there was no _little lady_ about it – no _feminine heart _or _soft, womanly touch. _It was the hard edge of a table jutting into her hip and her face pressed flat into an unyielding surface; it was a rough tug at her hair that drew a hiss from her lips, and the looming bulk of a man who could crush her with his weight alone and who was blessedly unapologetic about it. And when he finally thrust into her it was with enough force to tear a shout from her lips, and her fingers gripped around the edges until her palms stung.

There were no sweet words whispered in her ear, only the harsh rasp of his breath against the skin of her shoulder, and an oath when she angled her hips, the guttural syllables akin to some profane version of her name, and she'd have laughed if she'd had the capacity to think straight. She shifted again, and he must have been pretty worked up because a moment later he bucked against her, and caught himself against the edge of the table. But he'd learned, and even as he rode it out there was a pressure against her, a none too gentle _pinch_ and she dredged up a whole blasphemous prayer of expletives in response. The stroke of his fingers was making her light-headed, and when she finally came it was all she could to to hold herself upright as she jerked hard against the table.

His weight was heavy against her back, but she pushed against it as she slid down to her knees, and the grip of his hands loosened to allow her space. The floor was cool against her flushed skin, and she rolled onto her back to look up at the ceiling with a hoarse sigh, letting herself bask in the aftershocks as she worked on drawing breath back into her lungs.

She felt better. _Infinitely_ better. She felt like herself again – the Major General of Briggs. She felt like she could take on the world and win, and be the goddamn Führer General if she wanted to, and the thought brought a lazy smile to her face because fuck it if she wasn't a damn good leader and those pretentious Central fops could take their _feminine hearts_ and shove them up their asses for all she cared.

Something cold nudged against her bare knee, and she cracked open one eye to look up at Buccaneer looming above her.

"Bunk, ma'am?" he asked simply, good humour flickering in his dark gaze, and she let her eyes linger on the lines of his shoulders under the wool shift he was still wearing. And she considered him a moment, this massive bear of a man who didn't think twice about the way he treated her, who called her 'sir' and 'ma'am' even when she let him get away with using her given name, and who'd never once treated her with any less respect despite being the sole person allowed to see her come undone – despite being the sole person allowed to _make_ her come undone. But though there was a pleased sort of smile on his face, there was no trace of the kind of smugness that bespoke a need to dominate.

"Olivier?"

She blinked, and realized she'd drawn somewhere within her own mind. Then she smirked. "Olivier now, is it?" she hummed. He didn't make use of the privilege often, though like it had earlier, it was liable to slip out when he was near the brink of coming, along with enough oaths to make the name itself sound like one. It was an oddly gratifying thing.

He quirked a brow, and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Bunk?" he asked again, and she sighed, but nodded, though she wasn't at all averse to staying put for a little longer. The tenseness in her shoulders that had settled after the meeting with the Colonel was gone, and her muscles felt lax and soft.

"Yeah, probably a good idea." Pushing herself to a sitting position, she sighed at the pleasant ache low in her stomach, and when he held out a hand to help her up she accepted it, rising to her feet with a groan. _Going to feel that in the morning. _He reached out to wipe the crusted blood from her cheek, but she didn't slap his hand away, and merely raised a brow at the gesture. Despite his somewhat brutish manners, he never ceased to surprise her.

He turned to reach for his pants then, and realizing his intentions, she caught the sleeve of his shirt. "Oh, _no_ – you're not going anywhere." She nodded towards the bunk sitting against the wall. "Get in."

He grinned, and complied, dropping the pants to tug his wool shift over his head instead, throwing it away before he eased onto the mattress, the bedsprings straining under his weight. She followed his example, but took her sweet time about it, discarding her shirt at a lazy pace, and drawing her hair away from her face as she stepped up to the bunk, putting out the light in the kerosene lamp as she went.

He moved over to make room for her, but she snorted, as it didn't do much good. But she got in either way, and gave him a shove for good measure as she tried to get comfortable. It took a few attempts to find a solution that wouldn't see her crushed up against the wall during the night, and when they finally settled she drew the wool blanket over them both. The bunk was cramped, but the room had grown cold and he gave off heat like a furnace, and so she didn't mind the proximity all that much. Her head was cushioned on his arm and most of her hair was stuck under his weight, but when she breathed she sank into the mattress, and welcomed the after-sex lethargy with a pleased sigh.

"You know, sir, there was a reason I came to talk to you earlier."

She opened one eye to look up at him. "Indeed?" And she didn't even try to hide how little she believed that.

Buccaneer grinned. "Aye. It's the heating on the level of the guest quarters," he said. "Where the Colonel is staying. Seems there are some issues, and they won't have it up and running until tomorrow at the earliest."

She frowned. "And what the hell am I supposed to do about it?"

He looked at her, humour flickering in his dark eyes. "Well...you could move the Colonel to different quarters. It will be freezing there tonight."

She felt a smile tug at her mouth, as the implications behind his words hit her. "Freezing?"

"Cold as all hell, ma'am." He was silent a moment. Then, "But as it happens, I was unable to relay the message."

She smirked. "Oh you were, were you?"

"I was distracted."

"That does happen."

"It's unfortunate."

She hummed. "Oh, very much so." And when she breathed next her ire was gone, chased from her skin and her marrow like frost thawed by a heated touch, and she breathed a little easier. The old coot from Central had a damn cold night ahead of him, and if she didn't already feel mellow and comfortable, the simple fact drove every last vestige of annoyance from her mind. And she wondered then, at the odd way he had of making her days a little better. It wasn't the actions of a man who wanted to fight her battles for her – who needed to take out her bullies to protect her honour. But it was a man sworn to defend her honour regardless, and she marvelled at how easily he knew to tread the thin line between being attentive and being patronizing.

"Thank you."

He quirked a brow, but his gaze softened somewhat. "I don't know what you're referring to, sir."

She didn't correct him, but the significance of the gesture rested a comfortable weight in the space between them. Then with a smirk she threw a leg over his hip, using the momentum to push herself up until she was looking down at him. "You up for another round, soldier?"

He laughed – that low, rumbling sound she could feel in her veins, like a thrum rising from the bottom of her stomach. It was enough to make her go pleasantly dizzy, and she wondered idly if she wasn't getting in a little too deep. "One day," he grumbled, hands ghosting along the curve of her side, "They'll find my corpse in here, and you'll have some explaining to do."

She snorted, but shivered at the touch. "I'll tell them your notorious stamina didn't deserve the reputation it's garnered," she quipped dryly, tucking her hair behind her ear.

He barked a laugh. "Up against _you_, sir, I don't think that reputation would hold, either way." And there was the _honesty_ – the kind of remarks he dropped so out of the blue, and without expecting anything in return. And damn her for finding it charming, but there was something rare about that kind of unconditional sentiment, and aimed at someone like her, too. She'd never been an ideal prospect for a spouse; she didn't want kids, and thought trying herself down with marriage would be like shooting out her own kneecaps. She'd settled down years ago, though not in the way her family had desired, but she'd long sworn she'd draw her last breath in the bowels of her Fort and nowhere else.

She looked at him then, and felt – _something._ A tightening in her chest, and a flutter in the pit of her stomach. And she knew at that moment that no, she wasn't getting in too deep – she was way past too deep. _Too deep_ was weeks ago. This was something else, something you couldn't so easily resurface from.

But despite her misgivings, she found there was little room for regret in the press of metal-and-skin against her, and the pleased, rumbling laughter that followed the path of her hands along his shoulders made it hard to think about anything else.

And even if she'd never be a wife, perhaps it wasn't entirely too out of line thinking she could spend the long years of her old age with someone like him at her side.

* * *

AN: If anyone so much as _breathes_ a word about the end of Brotherhood I will throw something. _Let me live in my pit of ignorant bliss. _Anyway – good? Bad? ...meh?


End file.
